


sweetest devotion

by nagatha_christie



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Body Worship, Breathplay, Compersion, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dominant Nick, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Face Slapping, Fantasy Fulfillment, Heavy BDSM, Humiliation, Intimacy, Kink Exploration, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mild S&M, Objectification, Open Relationships, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Roleplay, Shower Sex, Submissive Harry Styles, Trust, Vulnerability, Watersports, Wetting, open communication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 20:49:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19384411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagatha_christie/pseuds/nagatha_christie
Summary: Harry feels light and glowy, smothered with joy like jam on toast with all the fixings, the kind his mum makes on Christmas morning for special breakfast. His favourite thing when he's home. Home is a strange place to think about now, six years into the wildest ride he ever could have imagined. Home is a childhood friend to him now, a face grown vague to him with the passing of time. An old relative he remembers more from photo albums than memories.But home goes beyond location; it's a feeling, one he's always chasing. Home is liberation, exposing himself bare in the padded walls of the studio. Home is chest-swelling excitement he feels in blinding lights, always. Home is Niall. Home is Nick.





	sweetest devotion

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this fic in april of 2017, the day Harry released his first single and there was a GLORIOUS Gryles resurgence. two of my pals were discussing the wee chat in the interview with Nick, and that snowballed rapidly into a chat about 'cuddling and kissing and evenings on the sofa and walking the dogs and nights out and coming home drunk and desperate for a piss' and 'i just want Nick to gently coax it from Harry ok. be all soft and teasing and fond and low-voiced and touch him all over during it' and 'i think harry would Love to be Teased and made to feel filthy and feel the centre of nick's attention, because nick is so intensely focused when they do that, and that focus on him is a heady thing' and how harry loves to be the centre of attention and was a human chair on-stage on MULTIPLE occasions and how nick and harry are NATURAL BEST FRIENDS BEFORE ANYTHING ELSE and 
> 
> i piped in with 'my heart feels like it's going to fall out my butt with joy' and 'i feel a special bond with all my niche kink pals' and 'he trusts nick SO MUCH ok' and 'there's balance of quiet trusting tenderness and burning intensity' and lastly, '*begins writing furiously*'
> 
> well. i began writing furiously that day two years ago and kind of .... never stopped. it's been intense and it's been a joy. thank you to everyone who's bounced ideas around with me and everyone who's trusted me and my process <3
> 
> hopefully i'll have part two (The Filth) up soon!
> 
> title is from [ sweetest devotion by Adele,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j-JQkRWFwow) which is a song Harry chose during that first interview, and the opening quote is from [ Frida Kahlo](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/7396830-you-deserve-a-lover-who-wants-you-disheveled-with-everything).

_"You deserve a lover who listens when you sing, who supports you when you feel shame and respects your freedom; who flies with you and isn’t afraid to fall."_

                                                                                                                                  --

Nights like these, Nick fancies a wind-down to his favourite Annie Mac club mixes, dancing barefoot, loud, carefree throughout the flat. But tonight, the house is witching-hour quiet and he’s standing in the kitchen with his socks still on. Dress socks, with a pattern of sparkly diamonds on them, in fact—special because tonight’s been special.

He's stumbled home sober enough to put on a kettle for them, and Harry's grateful for the familiar routine. Loose-leaf green tea’s the last one remaining in the cupboard, a huge jar of dense, earthy tea Harry brings back home every time he goes away.

It's Nick's least favourite tea.

“I’m actually _insulted_ by this,” Nick says. There's contempt, somehow, in the way he points his finger at the Snowy Mountain Jian. The spoon's resting against the jar, lid off as if they're expecting some company. The house is quiet, though, just them.

“Are you?” Harry tries carefully to keep a straight face.

“I’m insulted by how horrible it tastes," Nick says.

“You haven’t even tried this one yet. Supposed to fancy it if you like black tea, which you do."

Nick peers at the jar, reading, and narrows his eyes. “Doesn’t look promising.”

"Nick..." Harry groans, setting his head down on the counter. He can be _just_ as fussy as Nick. He's capable.

“Alright, alright." Nick holds his hands up. "I’ll give it a go. But I’ll hate every second of it, mind.”

"That's the spirit," Harry says, lifting his head. "This time next week you'll be begging me to bring you back more from LA."

"Begging, is it?" Nick grins.

"Hey, anything can happen."

"I'd love to see you try," Nick says, his smile obscured as he ducks into the fridge. He emerges with a lemon for their steeping kettle, and begins to slice wedges.

Harry takes his tea with lemon. Nick knows this. Nothing composure-shattering, nothing earth-rattling. Nothing special.

Still, Harry finds himself staring at Nick, watching him in their shared silence. The precision in Nick's movements, the concentration on his face, the shadow of his lowered lashes beneath the warm halo of light overhead. Harry can't look away.

A teasing comment forms behind Harry's lips. He _knows_ why Nick has to pay close attention when he cooks. There's been far too many trips to A&E to risk another distracted accident; Harry's been tasked with taking him there before, fuck's sake. It would be easy to rib him, too easy.

But Harry just says, encouraging: “You'll like it better with lemon."

"Doubt it." Nick pauses and looks up, grinning big. “Reckon all the lemon in the world couldn’t make it decent.”

"Don't knock it till you've tried it."

It's Nick's turn to groan. "You're a bloody caricature of yourself, I swear."

"S'a good tagline, though, right? Like, when it comes to us, especially." Harry's mouth turns up at the corners.

"That your new gig, is it? Moonlighting at the _Sun?"_

Harry shrugs. "If the whole singing thing doesn't work out, I think I'd be solid."

"The 1D hiatus is changing you, Harold."

"Not too much."

Nick flings his hand over his forehead. "Don't forget about me when you make your new mates at the _Sun."_

"I won't," Harry says. "I'll only write articles about you. Good things."

Nick snorts. "You wouldn't last a day there."

"Hey... Be supportive."

"I'll try my best." Nick smiles to himself. He turns back to the cutting board.

Looks like he's cutting the entire thing, much more than they'd need just for tea. Harry's sure the extras won't sit around for long; their revolving door of friends dips in once a week for a round of Aimee's homemade cocktails, Fifi's lemon roasted chicken, Daisy's carafes of fruit-infused bubbly water.

Nick had brought a half-dozen pals to Harry's single release party tonight, their familiar peals of laughter reminding him that no matter what the papers said, he would never be cool enough for them to stop taking the piss. Nick especially, his snide giggly comments making Harry blush pink and yearn to kiss him anyway, there in front of strangers. He'd directed his biggest smile at Nick instead, and it felt almost as good. Almost.

Harry rounds the corner of the island in the centre of the kitchen, stands next to Nick, too close. Almost.

"Thanks, you know. For coming out tonight. And, like, every other night.”

“Of course, popstar,” Nick says. "Wouldn’t miss it."

"Yeah?"

 _"Couldn’t_ miss it, if I’m honest. You’re what they at the BBC call a cultural study.”

"That what they say?"

“I've got to be at all your appearances," Nick says. "So I'm up on the hot gossip. Get the firsthand take on all things Styles. I'm contractually obligated.”

"I know," Harry says. "You're very dedicated to your job."

"Like you always say—work hard, play hard, be nice, right?"

"Could use some work on the last one."

"I'm always nice." Nick smirks. Insufferable. “Dead nice, me.”

There's a silly-wide smile on Harry's face as he kisses Nick, both of his hands anchoring easily round Nick's neck. Nick brings Harry close, one hand pressed to the middle of his back, their bodies settling flush against each other. The edge of the counter digs against Harry's back, but it's a small price to pay for Nick's mouth on his, being held so close he can almost _feel_ the waves of pride radiating from Nick, despite the hours it's been since Harry was onstage.

It's easy for Harry to get caught up in the languid rhythm of their mouths, the shifts of their bodies in time. After a day in the jungle of the press junket, Harry's keen to get a bit lost, in fact. It's nice to slow down and savour. Taste. So Harry does, and Nick's mouth isn't great, dull and flat from bottled beer at the party, a hint of peppermint underneath from the gum he'd chewed to fade cigarette-breath.

But there's comfort in the sheer predictability of that, and Harry doesn't shy away, licking eagerly into Nick's mouth. Their tongues slide together, lingering, and it makes his knees go wobbly.

Harry holds onto Nick's shoulder tighter, his other hand going up and touching Nick's hair, gone messy in the back. Harry smooths it over, then goes further up to the frantic drooping wave of his quiff. He runs his hand through it instinctively, just the way he's seen Nick do. Harry had wanted to do that at the party too, fixing it up to soothe Nick's nervous habit. Nick always stops what he's doing, to enjoy one moment of being cared-for, and he doesn't muss with it after, much as he might shift away or protest. It comes out better at Nick's hand, of course, but it's clear he fancies the way Harry does it.

Nick pulls away, cheeks pink. "Oi, come on, _precious_ tea's getting cold."

"Can't have that." Harry agrees, though he frowns as Nick steps back. He tingles in the places Nick had been close to, like phantom pleasure lingering behind.

Steam flows up as Nick pours two cups, holding the pot and the strainer in place. He only spills a bit.

Harry goes to grab basil from the fridge, a little pinch for something extra.

Nick’s smiling slyly. "You know who I had a nice little gossip with?"

Harry smiles, too. Nick's voice gets breathy and excited like that when it's juicy. "Who?"

"Niall Horan! The one and only!”

"Whey, Niall." Harry brightens, grinning at the mere mention of Niall. It’s enough to conjure up the sound of his constant, gleeful laugh—and memories, too, quieter but still there. The soft breathy rumble of his moan, the pressure of his eager hands.

“So laddy, we were. Us both with our pints. No pina coladas for us, no. We're lads."

"The pina coladas turned out wonderful, though. Did you try the pink one?"

Nick swoons. "I _did._ Amazing. I need the recipe."

Harry laughs. "See, you couldn't even fake it for five seconds."

 _"Trust,_ I tucked it in around Niall."

“What did you lot talk about?" Harry says. "I know that look."

Nick sighs. "Well, nothing much. Wouldn't spill any tea, that one. Only nice things to say about other famouses—massively nice things. Which is, you know. Less interesting."

"Oh, for sure." Harry leans closer. "What else did he say?"

"He kept going on and on about the new single and how proud he is of you. Yawn. Boring stuff."

Harry shoves an elbow in Nick's side. "Asshole," he says, laughing. "You should have led with that."

Nick raises his hands, innocent. "I didn't think it was important!"

"You're the worst," Harry says. But he's smiling, his chest light like birds’ wings. There is so much riding on his first single, it's true. But at the end of the day Harry knows his friends, his family—they matter most out of everything. So it steadies him to know Niall genuinely thinks he’s done a good job.

"He looked good tonight, too," Nick says. "I mean, he's adorable, famously, but this was something else. Oof." He exhales.

"Dark horse, he is," Harry says. "Always been. Cleans up nice, sweeps everybody off their feet."

"Proper fittie, who knew?" Nick's mouth curls up, sly.

Harry feels a quiet swell of pride at that. At Niall showing up unannounced to Harry's release party, earning unbridled stares of admiration in his custom-tailored suit. At Nick affirming what he and Niall have—whatever it is, anyway. At the thought of them two clustered in a corner, patting each other's shoulders, speaking close and murmuring into each other's ears. Talking about _him._

"You've got good taste, Harold."

Harry snorts. "Yeah, you're not _at all_ biased about my taste in men."

"Oh, absolutely, I'm biased," Nick says, raising his eyebrows. He holds Harry's gaze and stands up straighter with a new confidence. Nick takes a step closer to Harry, standing flush against him.

Harry grows so quiet he can hear the rustle of friction from their trousers as Nick bumps his hip and then stays there.

"Never said I wasn't." Nick's breath on his ear is hot, but Harry shivers, a jolt running up his neck and dissolving like a spark.

"Yes, I've very good taste. Clearly."

"That's right." Satisfied, Nick wraps his arm around Harry's waist and Harry leans in to it, easy. He kisses Harry, the curve of his jaw and then up toward his ear, and when Harry turns to meet his mouth, Nick pulls away, grinning.

"Unfair,” Harry protests.

Nick just smiles, cheeky, like Harry's a fun little plaything for him to bat around.

Nick perches on one of the tall stools pressed up against the island, drumming his fingers idly against a saucer. The glossy silver tone of the stool matches perfectly the watch on Nick's wrist, the Gucci one Harry’s seen him flaunt but never actually check.

“Debatable.” Harry reaches for his mug of tea. His first sip is comforting, gentle with a bitter aftertaste.

“I thought you wanted to sit in the lounge,” Nick says. “Couldn’t wait?”

Nick’s voice is so bloody flirty, so bloody _sure of himself,_ and Harry feels a pang of guilt in his belly as Nick’s hand settles on the small of his back. He stiffens in an unfamiliar way, so accustomed to relaxing into Nick’s touch.

"There's actually something I wanted to talk to you about. About Niall." Harry tries to keep his voice neutral, like this is just another fun bit of goss.

“Yeah?” Nick’s watching Harry intently, waiting.

"I snogged him. In the dressing room, right as he was leaving."

“Oh,” Nick says. That’s all he says. Harry flinches as Nick takes his hand away.

"Well, not a proper snog, but still something,” Harry says. “It was short and a little weird, actually? It’s never been weird with us, not really.”

"Weird and short is the best kind of kiss," Nick offers. "Totally underrated."

Harry laughs, relief flooding through him. "Yeah, you would know.”

“Hey, a little variety can be nice. A little spice in your life.”

"Yeah." Harry laughs weakly. Any relief he feels is gilded, an illusion. He knows there’s more under the surface, and he needs to speak to what’s beneath.

"Listen... I, um. I know it's not what we agreed on. I get it if you're cross. You have the right to be." Harry sighs and studies his hands.

Harry takes a breath and continues. "This _feeling_ came over me, at having a minute alone with him. I was so happy he came tonight. I wasn’t expecting to see him, and… I wasn’t expecting this. If that matters at all.”

“I get it, yeah. I do.” Nick nods, a line still between his brows.

"You do champion kissing your mates, it’s no secret."

"Yeah," Nick says, but softer.

Harry’s regretting what he said, even though he wasn’t really joking. A quiet falls over them, Harry holding his breath as he waits for Nick to set the tone.

Nick asks, "So, it wasn't part of Niall's Great Bisexual Experiment?"

Harry stifles a smile. Nick had fondly coined the phrase, after all. Maybe this will be okay.

Harry says, "He seemed well surprised, so I'm gonna say not.”

"Okay." But Nick’s face is unreadable.

Harry swallows hard. "What do you think?"

"Sure, it isn't what we agreed on. But remember what you said? What you keep saying. That a big part of this lifestyle—or whatever—is making things up as we go. That things change as time goes on, and that’s actually not a bad thing." Nick shrugs his shoulders. "Maybe this just isn’t black and white.”

“Wait, so you’re _not_ cross?"

Nick gives it a few seconds, thinking, and then shakes his head. "Not really."

"Oh, good," Harry says, exhaling. Harry sits down opposite Nick, finally letting himself relax, and reaches for his hand. "Thanks."

"It's good you said something. Glad you did." Nick slots their fingers together.

"You were the one I wanted to tell, like, right when it happened."

"What was it like?" Nick asks, leaning closer. "Beyond being a bit weird, I mean."

"It was nice," Harry says. "He held my arms and he kissed me back."

"Did you French?"

 _"French?_ Are you twelve?"

"What! These are vital details."

"I'm sure they are."

"Inquiring minds need to know, Harry."

"No, no tongue. It was quite gentle and, I don't know. Sweet."

"Were you properly wooed, then?"

"Kind of, yeah." Harry laughs softly. "I'm getting little butterflies talking about it."

"Oh, Harold, that's _adorable."_

Harry bites his lip. "I like him so much."

"You've got to stop, you're giving _me_ butterflies."

"Don't take the piss, love." Harry laughs.

"I don't even think I am! I've got goosebumps. Feel."

"I believe you."

"Tell me more."

"It felt quite natural, but I was nervous like it was the first time all over again. Taking the risk and all. Couldn't believe myself."

"Was that the weird bit, then?" Nick asks. "Being nervous?"

"Yeah," Harry says softly. "It felt risky, and it's never been risky."

"You've snogged loads of times, though."

"Yeah, when we're in some hotel room in Berlin or whatever, a million miles away—not like this. Not just because."

Nick nods. "It was different."

"Yeah, kind of." Harry's stomach churns at the uncertainty of it all, and he takes a deep breath, trying to settle his anxiety.

Nick keeps his gaze even as Harry tries to look away. There’s that unrelenting kindness in his eyes, and Harry can never resist. Nick wants the full truth.

"He kissed me back, he did," Harry admits, shifting in his seat. "But he went all pink, like he does when he's embarrassed, and I just hate thinking I've embarrassed him, or made it weird, or—"

"He's a blusher though, right?" Nick asks.

The interjection brings Harry back, sharp and clear. "Oh, definitely," he says. "He goes red easy."

"He could have fancied it, then, don't you think?"

"It's possible," Harry says. Hope begins to simmer inside him. "He gave me a big hug goodbye, too."

"Well, there you go," Nick says. "You've not ruined anything."

"I just don't know what happens now."

"Neither do I," Nick says. "And that's all right, too, isn't it."

Harry frowns. "I don't like not knowing."

"Remember what we _just_ talked about?"

"The grey space."

"Exactly. The grey space. It's not black or white because it's filled with all these possibilities in the middle. All these possibilities with Niall you can savour."

Harry tilts his head. "Isn't that _exactly_ what I said to you about Elgar?"

"Verbatim, yeah." Nick shrugs. "I listen to you sometimes."

Harry brightens. "Just like that, the student becomes the teacher."

"I've been around a few more years than you have, sweetheart." Nick scoffs.

"More than a few, if we're honest."

"Hey..." Nick grins. "You know, I'm going to let this one go because you're fragile right now."

"Just a bit fragile." Harry leans closer, tilting his chin up expectantly. He bats his eyelashes for good measure.

Nick closes the space between them. He kisses Harry, nibbling on his lower lip softly and then with more pressure, biting fiercely enough that Harry soon pulls back, to steady himself on the lip of the counter, fuzzy with pleasure.

Nick puts his hands on Harry's shoulders, grounding. "We're all gonna be fine, yeah?"

Harry nods. "We're all going to be fine."

"Good," Nick says. "Now, we've got some piss-poor tea to try, I reckon."

"Half of that sentence is true." Harry gathers up saucers, spoons, and for good measure, barbecue crisps. "You'll be thanking me when you wind up liking it."

"Yeah, alright," Nick says, rolling his eyes.

Harry heads down the stairs, and Nick calls after him, always needing the final word.

"And don't think we're done discussing your romance with Niall Horan, because we're not."

"Oh, I'm sure," Harry laughs.

The thought of sharing more does excite Harry. But he knows Nick talks a good game, more than anything. There won't be a part two, at least not tonight.

In the lounge, the sofa’s draped in layers of bright, inviting blankets, and Harry sinks down into it with a sigh, mug warming his hands.

Nick follows him and the dogs trail behind, sniffing out the second packet of crisps he's carrying like a small child in the crook of his arm.

Nick sits beside Harry with an identical sigh, shooing the dogs away. They settle at his feet, staring up at him intently.

"Go on, try it," Harry says.

Nick screws up his face and takes a tiny sip. "I hate it."

"Don't be a baby."

Nick sighs, long-suffering. He rolls his eyes and takes a bigger, slurping sip.

"Let me guess,” Harry says. “It gets less horrid the more noise you make?"

"Actually, yes. Like Okko Ramen, except ramen only gets better with slurping. But the science is similar."

"Ramen! Now who's changed?"

Nick holds up his hands. "Listen, alright.... Anyone with rubbish to say about ramen has no soul. It's simple facts, Harry."

"Completely airtight reasoning there." Harry nods.

"Reckon this is something we can both agree on."

Harry hums, thinking. "Ramen _is_ delicious. And so versatile. Maybe you do have a point."

"You're welcome for my contribution," Nick says. "Are we done here?"

"You can be done. I'll just finish yours."

"Be my guest." Nick hands over his mug and reaches for the crisps.

Harry slurps down the rest of his tea, just because he can, and eyes Nick the entire time. Nick retaliates by crunching more loudly, and then with his mouth open, because presumably that makes him louder. Then he sticks out his tongue, half-chewed crisps and all.

"Gross," Harry says, between laughs.

"I win." Nick nudges him.

"Whatever you won, you can bloody keep it."

"Sore loser." Nick grins. “As per.”

Harry ignores him and leans over to the table for a coaster, eager to put down his two near-empty mugs. But Nick's right—he does hate losing. Even when it's dumb.

"Don't bother," Nick says, waving him away. Chili-lime salt drips from his fingers. "I only brought the coasters out last week so Eileen wouldn't think I live like an animal."

"Responsible adult is the first thing that comes to mind." Harry holds the coaster up. Beneath the glossy varnish, there's a glitter-encrusted photo of Rihanna in a fur coat... and nothing else.

"Fuck off," Nick laughs. "Having the photo there makes it more believable I'd use them."

"Does it, though?" Harry says. "Doesn't your mum know you would never play Rihanna like that?"

"She does, but she'd more likely take it as a symbol of my undying love for Queen RiRi."

"Mm. I'm not convinced."

"That's alright," Nick says. "It was a good plan. She didn't say owt about it."

"Reckon she was too busy drinking your entire stash of tea."

"It's impressive, right? Twelve cups an hour, she drinks. Made quick work of it."

"You still cross at me for that?"

"Yes, I'm still cross," Nick says, indignant. "If it wasn't for her coming to see you and drinking up my tea, I wouldn't be settling for this."

"Here we go."

"Green tea is rubbish, weak, and shit. Proper tea is hearty. Warms you to your bones."

"I'm all grown, though," Harry says. "Think I'm strong enough to cope with a weak cuppa."

"That's right. My mistake. Forgot you have four whole chest hairs now."

"It's five."

“What?" The side of Nick's mouth curls up into a half-grin, already laughing without knowing the joke.

“I’ve got five chest hairs now."

Nick raises his eyebrows. "Wow."

"You want to see?"

"Reckon the entire world already saw, with what you’re wearing.” Nick snorts.

Still, Nick reaches out and runs his hand over Harry's chest, tweaking his nipple on the way across. It peaks immediately, and Nick laughs. "Slag."

"I'm powerless against your sexual energy." Harry rolls his eyes.

Nick sighs. "My cross to bear, I suppose."

"It's overwhelming," Harry says, deadpan. "I can scarcely contain myself."

Nick perks up, bright-eyed. "Yeah?"

And, well, Harry's powerless at _that._ Easy for Nick, the way Nick's easy for a compliment. He laughs softly and dips down to nuzzle Nick's neck, breathing in the crisp smokiness of his cologne, letting the scent fill his lungs.

Harry kisses Nick's neck, sucking and biting softly right under his ear. "Wouldn't want to stroke your ego too much."

"Humour me," Nick murmurs. His breath catches as Harry thumbs the small silver loops of the choker on his neck.

Harry clutches the back of his shirt and brings him closer, but Nick pulls back.

"Tell me about Niall, yeah?" Nick says.

"What?" Harry’s taken aback, but there's utter sincerity on Nick's face. "Right now?"

"Only if you want to, I mean." Nick holds his gaze.

Harry can feel Nick's hand resting on his shoulder, solid and real. "Yeah?"

"My curiosity is officially piqued."

The very last thing Harry wants to do is stop kissing, but there's a rare opportunity here. Nick's giving him the floor completely, ready to hold anything he wants to share. And the thought of talking about Niall freely gives him a warm feeling in his belly he thinks he should chase.

Harry sits back as he readies himself to speak. He runs his hand over his blouse, smoothing the wrinkles out as he sorts out what to share.

"In a way, I'm glad we started sleeping together, or messing about, or whatever. I like having this part of our friendship that's just for us—special, you know? And I'm the first bloke he's been with, even just kissing."

"The only one?” Nick says. “Really?"

"No, I think there's been others since." Harry smiles to himself, feeling the warm glow of compersion.

Nick smirks. "You're a good influence, Styles."

"I like to think so." Harry nods and feels himself smile as he remembers going out bowling on a stormy day with Niall and Bressie and their mates. Bressie stayed close to Niall, hugging him tight when he got a strike and whooping even when he didn’t. Always watching each other, them too, sitting close and sharing snacks. Niall told Harry afterward, quietly, about how Bressie’s his best mate and makes him feel safe and protected. Like Harry does. That’s all Niall’s _told_ him, but there’s more Harry knows, even without needing to be told.

"It's been cool to, like, experience things with him for the first time. He's got this curiosity about him, and just—joy. Always joy. And I like that so much."

"And you fancy being a good influence." Nick raises his eyebrows.

"That, too. I like showing him all the things I know."

"The filthy, filthy things."

“Hmm.” Harry laughs. "I'd say _mildly_ filthy."

"Got simple tastes, does he?"

" I'd say so," Harry says. "Not a pervert, anyway—not like you and me."

"Well, hang 'round you long enough..."

"Maybe," Harry says softly. "He's skittish enough around the basics at the moment."

Harry feels a tenderness, at that. Being Niall’s first, looking after him the way he deserves. Niall brings out the exhibitionist in him, eagerly touching himself under Niall’s curious, cheeky gaze.

“What?” Nick says, sympathetic. “You’re all frowny. Don’t like it.”

"We said it'd be best to stop after tour, so things wouldn't get complicated. Keep it on the road and all. And I said yes, because I thought there'd be another tour. I didn't think..." Harry trails off, clicking his tongue as he tries to say what he needs to say.

“I think about being with him, and I don't want it to end here. I don't want to go back to what we were, before. Best friends is great, but I want to, like, keep exploring with him. Figure out if this could be, you know, something."

"The grey space."

Harry sighs. "That bloody grey space."

"It'll be the death of us all.”

Harry snuggles in close to Nick. "Hope not," he mumbles.

Nick puts his arm around Harry, squeezing his shoulder, and it's better than saying anything at all.

"I'm glad you asked, though."

"Me too," Nick says. "I'm quite fond of Young Niall. And I do like hearing about him. You guys together, the dynamic duo, aren't you."

"What does that make us, then?" Harry looks at him.

Nick sighs extravagantly. "A love story for the ages. Happy?”

"Yes." Harry settles back in. "Go on."

"Okay." Nick sighs, a real one this time. "Sometimes I wish I was more like you about all this. Like, how assured you are."

"I think the word you're looking for is aloof.”

Nick laughs. "Yeah, maybe."

"It's a sex thing, though. Mostly. I like hearing about you and other people; it turns me on. This, what you're talking about, is more of a feelings thing."

"Gross—Feelings." Nick makes a face.

"I know, I know."

"Listen, I know I'm not, shall we say, the _chillest_ person."

"Nothing wrong with that," Harry says. "I like you exactly how you are."

Nick huffs a laugh. "Cool it down, Romeo."

"Seriously, though." Harry looks up at him. "You don't ever have to try to be aloof or _chill,_ or whatever. I don't know if that's better, or if I'd even want it. I just want you to be alright."

"Yeah. Okay." Nick nods. There's a faint little smile on his face. From this angle, Harry can see the dark circles Nick had concealed earlier, his foundation worn off from the fullness of the day. In this light, his five o'clock shadow seems rougher, the edges of his face sharper.

Harry snuggles in closer and reaches out for him, a hand on the back of his neck and the other on his thigh, squeezing.

Nick snogs him back, hard and deliberate, breathless and eager, even after all this time.

There's a sense they’re being watched, the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck rising, and Harry looks down to see both the dogs on the rug, their tails urgently wagging.

"Rude. We were having a moment." Nick huffs. He looks down at them and softens. "Suppose if I can't give you crisps, the least I could do is take you lot out, right."

"It's the decent thing to do."

Stinky puts his paws on the sofa and Nick rubs the top of his head, cooing. “You should go,” Harry says. "And now that I think about it, I’ve got to wee, too.”

“Welcome to come, just have to stay in for your wee. I’ve got neighbours, you know.”

“You’re no fun."

Nick gets up with a grumble and grabs a leash from the table. "Alright, children, let's go."

Harry lays down in Nick’s spot. “I’ll keep the sofa warm.”

"Quite selfless, aren't you.” Nick smiles.

Harry does a big stretch. "Yup."

Nick follows the dog outside, and then Harry’s left alone, the flat startlingly quiet in Nick’s absence. Harry never realises how much space Nick takes up until he’s not there.

Harry sighs and stretches again, lifting his arms up and pushing his feet against the arm of the couch. He rests a hand on his belly, soft and sleepy, feeling the puffy cushions sink in beneath his weight.

The party tonight had been exhilarating, the entire bar effervescent with excitement. So many people looking forward to his solo release, so many eager eyes wanting to see him do well. All the press and photos had been enjoyable, too, spread out through the day so he'd keep his energy up.

Harry feels light and glowy, smothered with joy like jam on toast with all the fixings, the kind his mum makes on Christmas morning for special breakfast. His favourite thing when he's home. Home is a strange place to think about now, six years into the wildest ride he ever could have imagined. Home is a childhood friend to him now, a face grown vague to him with the passing of time. An old relative he remembers more from photo albums than memories.

But home goes beyond location; it's a feeling, one he's always chasing. Home is liberation, exposing himself bare in the padded walls of the studio. Home is chest-swelling excitement he feels in blinding lights, always. Home is Niall. Home is Nick.

So even amid the fuzzy exhaustion, Harry lays there and he basks, grateful for his lot and all he's worked toward. He's on the precipice of his new chapter, and the excitement eclipses any aches and pains, any blurry vision, any stress.

Harry's grateful most of all to be back here with Nick after such a day, grateful for the quiet and the dogs, the teasing and the snuggling and the intimacy. He's glad for the chance to level with Nick about what'd happened with Niall, the tension immediately released from his back, where he carries his stress. All this time focused on seeming unflappable, easygoing... he'd forgotten there can be strength in vulnerability. And vulnerability's at the heart of everything, with them. It has to be.

When they're with other people, the lines are sharp and clearly defined. Some of the lines, anyway. By design, it's always vanilla when it comes to other partners—and that can be nice, too. It's exciting to get off with a stranger, or wank each other off in a lamp-lit hotel room, or do any number of activities that don't actually require elaborate negotiations, long chats, and safe words.

But it's not always so simple.

Billy was fun and friendly, good for a laugh and a tequila shooter. He started off as a BBC intern, all coltish energy and messy blonde hair. Adorable. Nick and Billy were inevitable. They grew closer through proximity, sharing friends and drunken nights at Nick's place. But Billy would sneak out afterward, Nick said, without even saying goodbye. They were supposed to be friends. For a fling, it was nice and it was what Nick needed at the time—but they're better off now. Harry's glad, for Nick's sake, things aren't awkward at office parties and music festivals, at the million other places their paths still cross.

Elgar is different. Better-suited to Nick's sensibilities and more attuned to what he needs. Gorgeous, too, built broad with strong arms and a beaming smile. He can pull off a tuxedo with more confidence than James Bond, and he does—often. Devoted fully to fashion and football, he doesn't have room for much beyond the occasional shag. He doesn't stay the night, but they share a cig and maybe a cuddle, and it's enough.

There's softness in Nick's eyes when he talks about Elgar's intelligence, his ambition, and his bear hugs. Sometimes Elgar will tell Nick about his sisters and his baby nephews, about meeting his dad's family in Jamaica for the first time. Sometimes, Nick says, he likes it more than shagging. And that's what Harry doesn't quite know what to do with.

Of course Harry feels the gnaw of insecurity sometimes; of course he's kept up some nights, wondering. There are still things Nick doesn't know, not because he wouldn't understand, but because sharing feels too tender. Like how Niall will call Harry _pet_ sometimes. It'll just slip out, earnest, his affection truly meant, not a thing shouted on the safety of a stage and punctuated with a predictable slap on Harry's bum.

And Harry likes it, more than he thought he would. But still it's a private thing, a thing to be mulled over carefully, and Harry wants to sit by himself in that tenderness. For now, anyway.

Harry shifts his hands in his lap, twisting his rings around his fingers. There's a gleam catching his eye. Oh. Of course. He takes the silver ring off, rolls it around in his palm. The band is etched in chain-mail style filigree, the links of the chains so ornate, the pattern can't be discerned in most light. He doesn't have to turn it over to catch the engraving: Nick's initials and his own, with a tiny anchor in between.

Because no matter what happens, they still have this. Their sacred world of collars and commands, this space just for them. This place where Nick always stands tall and Harry sits content at his feet. This gift was the first one Nick had brought to show Harry that all these strange shared acts of exaltation meant something to him, too. Harry can't think of anything more romantic.

There's no one else he would trust with this, no one he trusts more than he trusts Nick.

Something clatters, and there's a skitter of paws on the floor as the dogs run in.

“You’re _wel_ _c_ ome,” Nick calls after them, shutting the garden door.

“What, they don’t appreciate you?” Harry says, smiling.

“Greedy little beasts, innit,” Nick says, toeing off his shoes and walking toward Harry. “Don’t get one lick of thanks.”

“Well, I appreciate you,” Harry says, sitting upright to make space.

“Yeah?” Nick says, sinking into the couch, so close their legs are touching. His warmth is comforting, welcome.

Harry says, “Show you how much, if you let me."

Nick hums in response. Harry's not sure what it means. His stomach dips in disappointment.

Harry slips his hand between them, links their fingers together. “Tired?”

“Not as tired as you, reckon,” Nick says. His laugh is soft against Harry’s ear.

“I could go for staying up longer,” Harry says. A few seconds where Nick doesn’t speak, so Harry goes for it. “Bet I could convince you.”

Nick lifts his head. Facing Harry, he's smiling. “I’m listening.”

“Was thinking about what you said, like. Before you went outside. About staying in to wee.” Harry’s mouth goes dry. He’s said so little, yet it’s taken this much out of him.

Nick squeezes Harry’s hand. "Ah."

“Yeah.”

“Needing a bit of a break?”

Harry’s voice goes soft. “Yeah, that’s it.”

“S’been a long day, hasn’t it?”

“Almost too much.” It feels heartening to realise, and to admit.

“Sooner or later, I’ll need a wee, too," Nick says. "Is that what you're after?"

A moan rises in Harry, and he tamps it down. He knows the real question Nick’s asking, the same way Nick knows what he really means.

“I, I—s want that. So much.”

“How bad do you have to go?”

Harry grapples for the words in his mind, reflecting back on his beers at the party, the tea downed here in a mindless instant. “Um—Four, it’s a four.”

“Gives us some time, then, doesn’t it,” Nick says, so brightly it makes Harry’s head spin. Never one to commit to a single tone, Nick slips between several in times like these. It keeps Harry guessing Nick's whim, and he likes it that way. Knowing what to expect, but still being surprised.

Harry nods, breathless. Nick wraps his arms around him, leaning down so they can kiss. All the edges ebb away, knowing smirks and smug confidence dissipating as Nick kisses him softly with a closed mouth, almost chaste. As if Harry’s something fragile, as if Nick doesn’t know exactly how to handle him. As if.

"What do you need?" Nick asks. His face is open and kind, his expression so willing, it makes Harry want to cry. He doesn't trust anyone more than he trusts Nick.

Harry feels his shoulders curl in. He tucks his hair behind his ear and rubs his nose to relieve the tingling he gets when he's nervous. The words aren't coming easy.

"You can tell me," Nick says. "Here, it's just us. Nothing else."

"Right," Harry says, hands clenched in his lap. He looks in Nick's face again. They've agreed together how important it is to be honest about what they want, even when it's hard to own up to. Especially when it's hard to own up to. There's an intentionality around the way they communicate, and Harry has to honour it. So he takes a deep breath.

"I want to be on my knees."

Nick nods. He's following. "Yeah?"

"Actually. No—No, not quite it. I want you to get me on my knees." Harry's voice gets louder. He unclenches his hands and wipes his palms on his thighs.

"Okay. Literally?"

"Every way you can think of."

Nick smiles. "Tall order, but reckon I could manage that. Maybe more."

Harry nods. "I want to feel helpful, I think. Useful, like. Can you do that?"

"You want to serve."

"Yeah." Harry bites his lip.

“Yeah, I could do.” Nick nods again and keeps his eyes on Harry.

It's reassuring, the way Nick can tell from Harry's face there's more on his mind. Something else to hold.

"Can I, um, ask you something?" Harry closes his eyes and takes another breath. It's too quick, unsatisfying. “How many beers did you have?”

"Half-dozen, maybe. More," Nick says, shrugging. "Couldn't keep count, if I'm honest."

"Oh." It's all Harry can say, this one startled syllable dropping out like a boulder from a cliff. He tries for speech again, repeats instead, just as helpless. "Oh."

"Yeah, I went once at the party, that’s it. Kept getting wrangled into conversations." There's a certain brightness in Nick's eyes as he speaks, a sly half-smile on his face to match.

"What about when we came home?"

"Nope. Too busy."

Harry swallows hard. "That's a long time."

On some level, Harry knows Nick's surprised they're sitting here having this talk, making these plans. The night's taken a turn they _both_ hadn't been expecting. So Harry knows Nick didn't mean to wait, probably. Wasn't holding out deliberately, wasn't saving himself for when they were together.

But the thought of it. The _thought._ Harry can feel himself start gawping at Nick, eyes widening, hoping desperately for more details. Harry squirms in his seat and leans closer. Maybe Nick was squirming right beside him in the cab earlier, and he hadn't even noticed. Maybe Nick will tell him about it.

"Look at you," Nick says. "S'like you're about to start salivating or something."

Harry closes his mouth. He gathers himself and says, "Don't know that subtlety is part of my appeal."

"It's not what you're known for, no." Nick laughs.

Harry laughs with him. Still, he can't shake the feeling he's lost control, like it'd been shed it along with his composure.

Maybe he didn't lose it, exactly, just placed it in Nick's hands.

"Move the table so you have enough room; I want you to be comfortable."

"Settle in, grab an afghan?" Harry says, unable to tamp down a smile.

Nick laughs. "No, not quite. I've plans for you yet."

"Go on, then," Nick says. "Why don't you get on your knees for me."

Harry slides off the couch and sinks to the floor, his knees hitting the ground sudden and harsh, the motion resonating through him. He steadies himself and looks up; Nick nods gently and doesn’t speak.

There's a twinge of uncertainty, fluttering through him before hitting square in the gut. This doesn’t feel quite right, feels like pushing his feet into boots that are on the wrong feet. Harry’s swelling tension from the day sticks with him, a shadow overhead, not dissipated by this—the act that always puts him deeply at ease.

Harry blurts, "I think I could use a little push. A little—A little more."

Harry squirms in his spot, but he stops at the soft look on Nick's face.

"Okay," Nick says, with bright confidence. He motions to the floor, gesturing with a sense of purpose that clears Harry’s mind. "All fours, then."

A deep dive. Perfect. Harry sighs with relief.

The ornate rug is soft and springy under Harry’s palms, like a finely-knit cloud. Perhaps there will be indentations on his skin later; the marks won’t be as vivid as bruises, as visceral as tattoos, but they’ll serve as a reminder still.

“Close your eyes,” Nick says. “Steady yourself.”

Harry’s eyes flutter. A comforting wash of calm overtakes him as he leans into the darkness, steadying his position and pressing his hands into the rug. His senses immediately feel heightened, the hum of passing cars on the street echoing like he’s right there on the pavement.

“Good,” Nick says, sighing contentedly. There’s the crinkle of the cushions as Nick sits back.

Right in the middle of Harry’s back, there’s welcome sense of pressure. Nick’s placed both feet on Harry, using him as a footrest. Using him. Harry could swoon.

Harry’s pinned to his spot from just that bit of pressure, his limbs taking up deeper roots as all the tension starts to fade away. Even if he could move, he wouldn’t dare, not even a shiver, nothing. Nothing in this moment besides his body, steadied in service for as long as Nick needs him.

“Come on, guys,” Nick says, patting the couch. Collars jingle as the dogs jump up. There’s a sound of panting, of dog paws scraping on the cushions; Harry pictures Stinky sprawling out over Nick’s lap, eager for a belly rub.

“Must be nice,” Nick murmurs, like he’s talking to himself. “Getting to just relax after the day it’s been.”

The words wash over Harry, and he isn’t even tempted to speak. It’s a luxury, just being here without any expectation of him. Just being present.

The pressure feels nice, but it’s still something Harry eases into, like a hot stone massage. Mostly it feels intimate—overwhelmingly—to connect like this, concrete and full-bodied.

Nick crosses his ankles, fidgeting. Harry follows the soft footfalls, retreating and then returning. There’s the tiny clicks of Nick tapping on his phone, and a slow, mellow Imogen Heap song begins to play.

Harry clenches and unclenches his fists; he wants to sway along to the beat, become a part of the song himself, meld right into it. He’s got to stay still for Nick.

The tips of Harry’s fingers brush Nick’s Gucci slides on the rug, and Harry bows his head and rubs his cheek against the leather. The shoes are luxurious, well-worn and soft.

“Hey, Harry?” Nick says, hesitance in his voice. “I feel sort of restless. I’m sorry. Turns out I’m not good at being still, or quiet.”

Harry huffs a soft laugh. It takes a few seconds for the words to sink in. He feels very, very far away, but it’s nice.

“Also, I really want to get you naked. Like, _really_.” Nick hums, still uncertain. “Is that alright? I know two minutes isn’t quite what you asked for.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, slowly sitting back on his knees. Harry rolls his shoulders back. He feels light and relaxed; feels like he’d been on the floor a long while. “Let’s do that.”

“Wait, stay there,” Nick says, and settles down beside him. He looks Harry in the eyes, reminding him of his humanity. He’s not an object anymore.

“You were very good,” Nick says, affirming. “Very useful. Great footrest. 10/10.”

“Thanks.” Harry laughs. “Just what every footrest wants to hear.”

“You’re the best one, though,” Nick says. He leans in and kisses Harry slow, lingering.

Harry clasps his hands in his lap, sitting still as Nick runs a hand gently up his arm, pausing at the jut of his collarbone with one hand spread on his chest. No better way to ease out from this space but to be touched like this, with concern and care and hunger all in one touch. Have their own language, they do, speaking with just their bodies.

“I’m ready,” Harry says, getting to his feet.

“Me, too," Nick says, leading the way.

Harry follows Nick down the hallway, light, loose-limbed and giddy.

**Author's Note:**

> send me love on [ tumblr,](https://misowithlizo.tumblr.com/post/185891713116) i'm all ears, lovebugs


End file.
